


Were The World Yours

by Xris



Category: Glee, Were the World Mine (2008)
Genre: Crossover, Is Shakespeare A Warning?, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xris/pseuds/Xris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts extremely innocuously of course. The new drama teacher announces that Dalton will be putting on a musical adaptation of <i>A Midsummer Night’s Dream</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Were The World Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Several characers lovingly borrowed from Infraredphaeton's Dalton Boys Are Geeks universe. Go and read her stuff. All of it. Fabrisse's too.

It all starts extremely innocuously of course. The new drama teacher announces that Dalton will be putting on a musical adaptation of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. Kurt is a bit stymied at the selection—not at the cross-dressing aspect because, come on, two thirds of all Shakespearean comedies have some form of cross-dressing and he’s secretly believed that the Bard had a major kink for it since he first watched Nunn’s _Twelfth Night_ —but because it seems so out of character for the school. _Midsummer_ is probably the most chaotic of all Shakespeare’s comedies, and the tone seems somewhat out of place in the dour atmosphere of Dalton Academy. They use a gavel during Warblers meetings, for godssakes. Hamlet would probably be somewhat more appropriate.

He stifles a ludicrously amused smile when he considers Blaine sweeping across the stage holding a plaster skull and crying out ‘alas, poor Yorick!’ He tucks that particular fantasy away for later inspection.

There’s suddenly something important being said about auditions, and Kurt jots down the details. He’s wrecked his chances of getting a solo with the Warblers—for now, anyway, because apparently first impressions last, and Duran Duran plus Evita apparently don’t leave a very good one—so this might work for a distraction until he claws his way out of the sudden black pit of social awkwardness he’s inadvertently cast himself into. It’s not that the boys are _mean_. They’re all blandly pleasant and almost impossible to tell apart. It’s just that…

Nope. Not getting into that snake’s nest of ‘what ifs’ again. He’s made his bed, and by god he’s going to lie in it.

The class ends and they filter out in a solemn line. Like some wonderful poster-perfect picture. “Conformity Rules! Come to Dalton!” He shushes the bitter thought and heads out into the hall.

He didn’t really know what he expected at Dalton. At least a little part of him was hoping that he and Blaine would immediately fall in desperate gay love and eyesex each other every spare moment between classes. Yeah, not so much. Blaine doesn’t eyesex him any more than Finn does—and, yeah, not going there _ever, ever again_ —and spends most of his time with David and Wes. Two more picture-perfect Dalton boys with less personality than a score of the nameless drones he’d left behind at McKinley.

Kurt actually spends most of his time in the library. If nothing else, he loves Dalton’s expansive library. It’s become his succor from the crowded hallways and the deeply closeted love for everything British one of his classmates Harry enjoys. Personally, Kurt got a bit of a kick out of it at first, until Harry stubbornly refused to see anything funny about his name and its appropriately thematic keeping with his hobbies.

As always, he retreats to the library and seats himself at one of the random tables among the stacks. Slipping his copy of _Midsummer_ from his bag, he starts reading and loses himself in the familiar words. His mother had loved Shakespeare. And while Kurt hadn’t understood anything the actors were saying when she’d dragged him to a local college production of _Much Ado About Nothing_ when he was little, the lingering love of the language and the memory of her soft laughter had remained with him. He’d read all the plays before he could understand half of them. And for a while, he’d run around the house screaming things like ‘thither’ and ‘prithee’ just to see her laugh. The screaming had stopped when she’d died, but the love of Shakespeare hadn’t.

By the time he finishes his first read-through, he’s resigned himself to getting a tiny part. At least, if his success with the Warblers is anything to go by. There are too many other talented boys at Dalton to compete with for the larger roles. If he’s lucky, he’ll land Quince or Snug. Or one of the fairies. One of the small parts without meaning or substance. But that works for him, as that’s pretty much how he’s felt since conceding defeat and leaving McKinley.

He loses track of time, and barely makes it to dinner to grab the last few dregs from the salad bar. He’s caught up in his second reading of _Midsummer_ by the time curfew rolls around.

The next day passes without incident. The auditions are that afternoon and word’s spread pretty much like wildfire. He’s not surprised to see the entirety of the Warblers and all of the drama club lined up outside the gym doors. He waits his turn at the back of the line, listening with a strained ear to the bits and pieces of music he catches sneaking out from under the door every so often. They’re mostly singing the same things. Simple, unexciting renditions that they’d practiced a million times during Warblers practice. The drama club has collectively decided to sing Maroon5—whether it’s on purpose or by accident isn’t something he’s not quite sure of.

Standing in line, half-listening to one more student belting out ‘This Love,’ Kurt wonders how his life has come to this point. Dalton was supposed to be the promised land. A place without bullying and repercussions for being different.

But that seems to be the crux of the problem. Because no one _is_ different. They’re all painfully similar, like perfect cardboard cut outs all cast from the same template. And Kurt doesn’t feel like that. And despite Blaine’s attempts at reassurances, he doesn’t think that he wants to feel like that. At least at McKinley, he’d been able to express himself. Through Glee, Cheerios or even the remarkable stylings of Alexander McQueen. He doesn’t know who designed the uniforms, but it definitely was _not_ anyone he’d cheer for on _Project Runway_.

He finally gets to the front of the line. There are only a few boys left behind him, and they’re scrambling to read over whatever parts they’ve decided to read through. Kurt’s already got his passage marked, his finger stuck in between the pages. It’s ballsy, and Blaine would probably once again recommend against ‘trying too hard’ but Kurt’s feeling brave. If he’s going to be cut from Shakespeare, it’s not going to happen because he didn’t give it 1000%.

The boy who was in front of him leaves the gym and waves Kurt in. At the far end, Ms. Tebbit has set up behind a piano. She’s sort of a strange woman. Half-lost in dreams herself most of the time, or so Kurt speculates. She joined the school around the same time he did, replacing an older gentleman that no one really misses.

“Hello, dear. I was wondering when you’d come.”

Kurt smiles and steps into the gym. “Great acoustics in here.”

“Yes.” She waits for him to cross the gym floor and mount the stage from the stairs to the left. “What are you going to read for me today, Kurt?”

“It’s not from _Midsummer_ ,” he warns her.

“Ooh, an adventurous soul. How divine. By all means.”

Kurt smiles and opens his book. He’s edited a bit, and he knows most of it by heart already, so he throws everything he can into the reading. “If Jupiter…

> Should from yond cloud speak divine things,  
> And say ‘Tis true,’ I’ld not believe them more  
> Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine  
> Mine arms about that body, where against  
> My grained ash an hundred times hath broke  
> And scarr’d the moon with splinters: here I clip  
> The anvil of my sword, and do contest  
> As hotly and as nobly with thy love  
> As ever in ambitious strength I did  
> Contend against thy valor. Know thou first,  
> I loved the maid I married; never man  
> Sigh’d truer breath; but that I see thee here,  
> Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart  
> Than when I first my wedded mistress saw  
> Bestride my threshold.”

He loves this passage. Not only because these precious few lines have more passion he’s ever felt in his entire life, but because for a glimpsing moment he can imagine someone saying those words to him.

“Ah, so you can act the tragedian. The lover. The secretly desirous warlord. But can you do comedy?”

She blinks, and Kurt wonders if she’s waiting for him to answer. When he remains silent, she smiles. “ _Midsummer_ , dear, if you please. Act two. Scene one. Start at line forty-three.”

Kurt grabs out his copy of the play and flips to the page she’s requested. His brow furrows slightly. “This is Puck’s part.”

“Indeed.”

He launches into it with the same passion he’d brought to Coriolanus. Truth be told, he’s always felt a bit sad for Puck. All those people around him, falling in and out of love like it was a trifling state of affliction, but Puck immortal and inevitably alone. Puck, to him, has always been bittersweet. Wanting. Lonely.

She stops him at ‘a merrier hour.’ “Not quite comedic, but interesting nonetheless. And you know this is a musical adaptation?”

Kurt nods. “Yes. It was part of the attraction.”

“When, my dear, pray sing on.”

She doesn’t move to the piano, but Kurt’s comfortable without. And this time, he’s not singing to impress her. Or a group of his peers. Or competing with Rachel. He’s singing for himself because he’s just been so goddamn lonely since moving to Dalton and if he can’t say it here, with no one listening except one elderly drama teacher who probably still uses L’Oreal to color her hair, then he’s never going to be able to say it. Ever.

 _All right, Hummel. Let’s do both Abba and Meryl Streep proud._

“ _I don’t wanna talk about the things we’ve gone through_ …”

 

That…that’s Kurt.

 _Jesus Christ, that’s_ Kurt!

Blaine stops outside the auditorium door, and Dave and Wes quickly outpace him. Blaine hangs back, looking through the small crack in the door. Kurt’s standing on the stage, but he’s not belting out showtunes or bubblegum pop. He’s singing something heartbreaking and longing and nostalgic and suddenly Blaine wonders where he’s been _hiding_.

But that’s it, isn’t it? He has been hiding. Because Blaine’s encouraged him to do so. Hide under the uniform and amidst the crowd. Because that’s what Blaine did, and that _worked_.

Didn’t it?

“Blaine?” Wes is looking back with a vaguely bored expression staining his face.

“Coming.” He somehow manages to tear himself away. But not before Kurt hits that last, perfect note.

 

“…the winner takes it _all_.”

Kurt can’t help it, he throws that last note out like it’s an old pair of jeans that’s been undeliberately ripped. Instead of the soft, sad note Meryl had half-whispered, he hits that F, working it into the song for the simple fact that he _can_.

“Thank you.”

Kurt almost doesn’t realize Ms. Tebbit’s spoken. He turns and blushes.

“No. Thank you for the opportunity.”

She smiles and nods graciously. “Please send the next boy in.”

Feeling embarrassed, though he doesn’t know why, Kurt somehow manages to walk off the stage with some modicum of confidence.

*

“Congratulations.”

Kurt looks up from his American History homework. “Beg pardon?”

Blaine slides into the seat across from him. “Congratulations. On landing the part. Pretty impressive, new kid.”

Part. What part? Nothing had been posted the last time—which had been number one hundred and twenty-four since his audition three days beforehand—he’d been by Ms. Tebbit’s classroom.

Blaine picks up on Kurt’s blank look and smiles. “Come on.”

Kurt half-expects Blaine to take his hand so they can run, slow-motion, down a long corridor laughing joyously over just being together. Instead, he waits civilly as Kurt packs up his books and they walk in step to the drama teacher’s door. There’s a small crowd around the door, but they all move aside when Kurt approaches.

The names are all listed in sequence according to the _dramatis personae_ at the front of their copy of the play. So he actually gets through almost all of them—apparently, Blaine landed Lysander, which is funny because Kurt doesn’t remember seeing him in line—before he freezes.

Puck. She gave Kurt Puck.

Kurt’s mouth opens and closes several times in shock, and then Blaine pats him on the shoulder. “Once again, congratulations.”

Kurt manages a smile, and then moves aside for the next kid to check for his name.

*

He could do his own costume in his sleep. After all the time he’s spend coordinating his ensemble? Please. But he’s been looking for a project for him and Carole to work on together during his weekends home, and this one seems sort of perfect.

“Carole, I need help making wings.”

Puck—the obnoxious one, not the Shakespearean one—snorts with laugher right into the dinner he’s mooched off Finn. How he’s managed to talk himself to their dinner table _yet again_ is a mystery. It’s becoming a bit of a ritual whenever Kurt’s home on odd weekends, though he can’t for the life of him figure out how it started.

“Shut it, Puckerman.”

“Wings?” Carole repeats. And, yeah, it was a bit of a non-sequitur, but he just couldn’t help himself.

“There’s a production of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ at Dalton. And yours truly has landed the role of Puck.”

Burt nods, his mouth turning up at the corners in a lopsided grin of pride. “That’s a pretty big part, right?”

“It’s ‘the’ part,” Kurt confirms. “And we’ve been tasked with providing our own costumes, so I thought Carole might be able to give me a hand with mine.”

Carole looks a little wistful, and for a horrifying moment Kurt thinks she might be envisioning two wire hangers stuck together and liberally covered with cellophane. Fortunately, the thought seems to leave her.

“You’re all invited, of course. Proceeds from the production are going a charitable cause.”

Burt nods first. “Sure thing, buddy. When is it?”

“Tentatively planned for the fifteenth next month. I’ll pick up tickets.” Kurt glances sidelong at Puck. “I can score an extra, if you’re interested Noah.”

He says it purely to goad the other boy. Much to his dismay, it backfires. Puck leans back in his chair an grins across the table at Kurt.

“Sounds good.”

Finn blinks. “It does?” Realizing his slip, he blushes and stammers through a nod and an overenthusiastic “it does!”

Puck holds Kurt’s gaze, his eyes at once taunting and daring. Well, fine. If he wants to sit through Shakespearean comedy, Kurt’s not going to deny him the opportunity. The exposure to culture will probably be good for him anyway.

“Why don’t you get tickets for the whole club?” Puck suggests.

Kurt intensely hates him at that moment. Not because he hadn’t thought about inviting everyone, but because Puck threw out the idea first. And he’s obviously only done it to annoy Kurt. As if crowding the McKinley gleeks into Dalton’s gymnasium will make having left them any easier.

“What a wonderful idea!” Carole chimes in. And Kurt’s caught. He turns up his brightest smile and nods.

“It is.”

 

Puck’s not all that bright. Or so he’s been told. Usually by people who soon afterwards end up on the receiving end of disproportionately retributive violence. But he doesn’t have to be bright to be perceptive. And when he sits across from Hummel every other weekend, he knows that he’s not having an easier time at Dalton than he did at McKinley. Oh, he hides it. Hummel’s a _master_ of hiding it. If he hadn’t been, Puck would’ve done something about Karofsky _months_ ago and they wouldn’t be in this predicament.

He sees it. He’s pretty sure Mr. Hummel sees it too. But unlike Mr. Hummel, Puck’s not that good at waiting for people to come around on their own. For reasons he does _not_ care to self-reflect on— _thanks, Quinn!_ —he wants Kurt to wake up, realize that gay Hogwarts isn’t the place for him and get his skinny-jean clad ass back to McKinley and New Directions where he fucking belongs. He doesn’t know exactly when or how he’s going to make this revelation take place, but he’s getting awfully sick of showing up at Casa de Hudmel on Kurt’s weekends off and watching the other boy trying to hide the guilty misery that’s obviously been bugging him since he left.

Hell, if he gets Hummel to do it quick enough, his parents might get enough tuition refunded to go on their honeymoon. He almost considers posing this to Kurt and then decides that would pretty much be the most dickish manipulative move in the history of dickish manipulative moves.

After dinner, Finn hauls him upstairs to play Grand Theft Auto, leaving Carole and Kurt to clean up the dishes and discuss wings. Or, as Kurt calls it, Operation Fabulous Flight Construction.

*

Rehearsals are going well. Kurt’s already half-memorized Puck’s lines, and focuses on his interpretation of Puck. Ms. Tebbit seems to like it, actually. Blaine’s playing Demetrius playing Blaine, the same charming confidence slipping into the character that won Kurt’s heart in the first place and making the character somewhat likeable, in a smooth snake sort of way. And Blaine’s been paying attention to him lately. A lot of attention. It’s sort of flattering and unnerving all at once.

Wes and David aren’t actually in the production, but they tend to show up at the rehearsals anyway. They spend their time ostensibly going over the possible set lists for Regionals and being oddly stiff around each other. Kurt’s not sure what their deal is, really. While his first impression of them as gay has mostly worn off, it does seem like there’s something missing between them. He couldn’t put his finger on it. And it’s not really something he’s going to talk to Blaine about. Not when he’s still divided between ‘my friend Kurt’ and ‘my friends David and Wes’ as opposed to ‘my friends’ collectively.

Ditto for Eric and Liam, though that’s not one Kurt’s ready to touch with a ten foot pole. The former is a soulless ginger who apparently hasn’t gotten over Kurt’s pathetic attempt at espionage and has been giving him the cold shoulder since he stepped foot in the school. Liam seems almost normal, except for his supernatural ability to curb Eric’s over-exaggerated ego far better than anyone else in the production. It’s perfect for them, considering they’ve been respectively cast as Titania and Oberon. Somehow, Kurt’s got the feeling that Ms. Tebbit has a fantastic sense of humor. Kurt doesn’t know why they don’t just admit their true, gay love for each other and put themselves out of their small biosphere of collective misery.

“My gentle Puck, come hither.”

Kurt comes hither. And Liam rests a hand on his cheek. Off stage, having made a dramatic exit that only he and maybe Rachel could truly pull off, Eric noticeably simmers. Apparently, he’d wanted the role of Puck. Whether because it meant something to him or because he wanted to take advantage of Liam’s casual intimacy isn’t clear. Well, not to anyone except Kurt, anyway.

Liam’s still clumsy with the lines. It doesn’t help that Oberon’s a particularly loquacious character. Kurt speaks a few words and then darts off. Past Eric. Who simmers at him some more. In his Magical Fantasy World of No Repercussions, Kurt grabs Eric’s shoulders, shakes him and then tosses him on stage into Liam’s waiting arms. In the slightly grimmer real world, Kurt takes a seat next to Blaine off-stage to wait for the other boy’s cue.

Blaine’s Helena, Pratik, seems lost without a guitar in his hands. It adds a rather charming ethereal quality to her character. And if he takes more than two minutes in the morning to fix his hair day-of, he’ll have a real shot at being outstanding.

The curtain call comes, and Kurt waits silently for his cue to re-enter. On the stage, Blaine is trying his utmost to be bastardly and failing utterly. Kurt’s not sure he has it in him.

Their part of rehearsal ends so the rest of the cast can get their chance. Kurt collects his bag from the side of the stage and turns to go.

And suddenly Blaine is right there.

“You sound really natural,” Blaine says. He smiles. It’s charming, almost to the point of being flat. Like he’s practiced a number of different charming smiles in front of the mirror. Kurt labels this one number seventeen: ‘I’m praising you and secretly think you’re the most talented one here, even though if I said it I’d hurt everyone else’s feelings.’ A month ago, Kurt would have killed to see Blaine smile at him like that. In Warbler practice.

“Thank you. You’re making Demetrius surprisingly sympathetic. I’d be careful, though. Too much more and I’ll suggest Ms. Tebbit rewrite the last act to have Hermia and Helena both run off with you.”

“Don’t forget about Lysander.”

Lysander is a rather dopey freshman who actually seems to be in love with the guy playing Hermia. It’s sweet and a little tragic.

“Blaine, are you coming?” Wes asks. The high ceilings of the gym carry the sound. Blaine smiles at Kurt again and then shows himself off to see his friends. Kurt stares after him for a second before catching himself and leaving the stage the other way.

*

“Yes, Mercedes, rehearsals are going very well. No, I just haven’t gotten the chance to come by McKinley and drop off everyone’s tickets.” Kurt paces around his basement, idly skimming over his lines from Act Three. “We have next Monday off for professional development for the teachers. I’ll swing by then.” He’s already his part memorized, but now he’s working it in with some of the fast-paced dialogue of the other characters.

And, secretly, he’s rather looking forward to the throwdown between Demetrius and Lysander. Especially since they’ve decided to make it rather…Greek. All that’s really missing is a cupful of olive oil and the shorts Sam wore during their _Rocky Horror_ assignment.

He’d love to see Blaine in those shorts. He can admit it to himself. Actually, he’d just be happy if Blaine gave him more than the time of day.

Maybe he’s tired. Maybe it’s the light. But suddenly the words on the page seem to shift.

He frowns. “Mercedes, I have to put you down. Call you tomorrow?”

He only waits to make sure she’s hung up before setting the phone down and staring at the page. At first, it’s like looking at a magic eye drawing. The muscles in his eyes start to ache as he squints and widens his eyes. But, slowly, the words begin to move. Half of the text disappears, and as the words rearrange themselves, he picks out a few small morsels of words. ‘Cupid.’ ‘Love.’ ‘Juice.’

Those end up being the page header. What follows is something that looks to be written in a sonnet style. But different. No sonnet he’s ever seen. He reads it over, words whispering through his head as he makes sense of it all.

No way. Is this…

He carefully places the book down on his desk and races around the room, collecting a few odds and ends he’s picked up over the years. Then, feeling daring, darts upstairs to pick one of Carole’s flowers from the garden she’s trying to resuscitate after years of neglect by Kurt and Burt. A splash of water from his bathroom. A few rocks. Odds and ends. A match. Then he breathes into it.

Nothing.

He sighs. Well, what was he expecting, after all?

Still, out of curiosity, he picks up the book and flips the pages to see if anything else jumps out at him. The following few are blank.

And then…a single word written in a sea of blankness.

 _Sing._

It’s not really a hardship. And since Burt picked him up on Friday, the same tune’s been caught in his head.

“ _Turn out the light_ …” He coughs to clear his throat of the hopeful lump that’s formed there. “ _Turn down the bed. Turn down these voices inside my head_ …”

He imagines himself back at Dalton, walking through corridors that were supposed to be a sanctuary and now seem merely ostentatious. He rounds a corner and sees Blaine sitting on one of the window seats, staring out into the night. “… _Lay down with me. Tell me no lies. Just hold me close. Don’t patronize. Don’t patronize me._ ”

Blaine doesn’t look up. Even in Kurt’s imaginations, the other boy ignores him.

“ _Cause I can’t make you love me, if you don’t. You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t. Here in the dark, in these final hours, I will lay down my heart and I’ll feel the power. But you won’t. No you won’t…_ ”

He continues walking, passing small bundles of other boys until he turns a corner and he’s suddenly in the choir room back at McKinley. The gleeks are all gathered around the piano, singing though he can’t hear them. Santana’s got a lazy arm looped around Brittany’s shoulders, though she’s leaning away from her to read off Artie’s sheet music. Rachel stares longingly across the piano at Finn, who for once is being deliberately oblivious.

“ _I’ll close my eyes. Then I won’t see_ …” He carries on through the room and out the other door. Azimio and Karofsky don’t notice him and he dodges out of their way. “ _Morning will come. And I’ll do what’s right. Just give me ‘til then to give up this fight. And I will give up this fight_.” How pathetic is it that he flinches away from Karofsky even now?

He expects the hallway to dissolve like that in McKinley. Instead, he turns another corner and the sad notes at the end of the song blank from his mind.

“ _Just gonna stand there and watch me burn_?” The words are low. A growl. But still strangely lyrical. Puck’s eyes narrow and he pins Kurt with an intensity that steals his breath away. “ _Well that’s all right, because I like the way it hurts._ ”

An elaborate design painted in shimmering black lines and green filling rings his right eye, taking up a good portion of his face. As he continues towards him, Kurt catches his reflection in the window of a darkened classroom and realizes he’s somehow acquired the same design.

He takes a few steps closer and it’s all Kurt can do not to retreat. The intensity in his eyes doesn’t waver. “ _Just gonna stand there and hear me cry? That’s all right, because I love the way you lie._ ” He raises his hand, a purple flower clenched tightly between two fingers. “I love the way you lie.” Instead of a song, the last words are an intimate whisper. Kurt feels his face redden.

He feels the barest brush of Puck’s breath against his face, and he’s instantly awake. Back in his room, his face pillowed in the crook of his arm. He blinks and raises his head, shocked when he sees the purple flower has somehow followed him out of his dream and rests across the backs of his fingers. He holds it reverently aloft, studying the strange shape of the petals and odd thickness to the stem. If he squeezes it, a small burst of pollen-laced nectar springs out. Strange.

He looks at the book again and once more heat suffuses his cheeks.

“Seriously?”

*

After an entire week of trying to figure out what to do with the flower, Friday rolls around and he finally decides that he’ll bring it along to rehearsal. He fights the urge to attach the flower to his lapel. The Academy itself isn’t draconian about conformity, but the boys seem to be. Every so often, he sees another student breaking out of his shell and doing something different. Loose tie. Band button attached to his blazer. But these small signs of individuality are quickly repressed by the condemning looks of the other students. Kurt’s feeling brave, bolstered by his role in the play, but not that brave.

Still, he carries it around, tucked in between his chest and a trig textbook.

Ms. Tebbit smiles when he enters the auditorium for rehearsals. They’re less than a week away from showtime, and with the exception of some minor staging, everything looks pretty much ready to go. The stage is lavishly decorated in dark greens and blues. A forest. And he’s really grown attached to the elaborate fake tree that wood shop came up with.

They run through some masking and a quick read-through of a scene that a few of the cast are having problems with. Kurt chimes in with his lines, though he’s distracted time and time again by the flower. Even thinking about it—about the look in Puck’s eyes—send shivers down his spine. Pleasant ones. Not that he’s ever thought about Puck ‘that way,’ because Kurt’s many things but a masochist he is not, but in dreamland, it was almost acceptable.

Towards the end of rehearsal, when most of the boys have already dissipated for their weekend off, Ms. Tebbit darts out to make a phone call.

“What’s that?” Blaine sits down beside him and looks at the flower curiously.

“I’m extended my knowledge of botany by studying strange and unusual local flora.”

“Really?”

“No. I...found it, and I thought it was pretty.”

Nearby, Eric’s practically vibrating to say something in response. He’s not a bully in the traditional sense, but he doesn’t like Kurt and it’s obvious to everyone.

“May I?” Blaine reaches out to take the flower. Kurt doesn’t immediately surrender it, however, and as the pressure of both their fingers touch the stem, a small spurt of the pollen sprays out and catches Blaine in the face. He rocks back, blinking wildly and staring at the flower in surprise.

Then he looks up at Kurt. And his entire expression changes. His eyes widen slightly around dilating pupils, and he smiles. Not one of the practiced, charming smiles. A real one. It kind of makes him look like a dork, actually.

“All my powers, address your love and might to honor you and to be your knight!”

The entire stage falls to silence as every eye turns on them. Kurt blinks.

“What?”

“O, let me kiss this prince of pure white, this seal of bliss!” Blaine leans forward, closing his eyes.

Three things cross Kurt’s mind: _oh my god, the flower actually works; oh my god, it’s turned Blaine into a Shakespeare-quoting nerd_ and _oh my god_ , finally!

Blaine’s lips brush against his, gently. They’re dry and warm. Kurt expects fireworks. Cannons. The rest of the boys present spontaneously erupting into the hallelujah chorus.

What he doesn’t expect is how much... _nothing_ he feels. Isn’t true love’s first kiss supposed to mean something? He’s pretty sure that it’s the entire premise of at least four or five Broadway greats.

Blaine’s hand has crept onto his knee and is starting to slide up his leg. Kurt withdraws from the mashing of lips and plucks one of Blaine’s fingers up so he can move his leg out of the other boy’s grip.

“Thanks, Blaine, but I’m not—”

Blaine wraps an arm around Kurt’s waist.

 _Oh dear._

“Blaine? Are you okay?” Wes calls from where he and Dave have seated themselves on a tall stack of wrestling mats.

Kurt dodges out and away from him. In the process, he bumps into Liam, who turns around to look his way.

“Hey—”

Kurt’s hand tightens on the stem. The pollen catches Liam in the eyes. Instead of waiting for the other boy to get over his blinking response, Kurt grabs his shoulders and twists him around towards Eric. It’s a short-term solution until he figures out what’s going on. But what the hell.

He feels the tension leave Liam’s body as he opens his eyes to look at Eric for the first time. “Eric!”

Eric blinks. “Liam?”

“My love, my life my soul, fair Eric!”

Okay, this is getting surreal. Wes and David have climbed down from their perches and are cautiously approaching the stage, as if terrified by getting anywhere near whatever Shakespearean-nut-germs have infected their classmates.

Blaine plasters himself to Kurt’s back and starts mauling Kurt’s neck with sloppy, poorly-aimed kisses that actually make Kurt Schudder a bit. Eric is looking at both Liam and Blaine as if they’ve lost their minds. Wes and David seem about a second away from tearing out of the gym entirely and leaving the rest of them to their happy, gay fate.

And in that second, Kurt pauses and thinks to himself, ‘ _oh what the hell.’_

He reaches over Liam’s shoulder and nails Eric before pushing Liam into his arms.

It’s funny how quickly they manage to get their hands under each other’s shirt.

Pratik’s looking confused, and Harry’s wandered onto the stage, playing with the collar on his Bottom costume. Those two are the next to get sprayed. Though, in their case, Kurt doesn’t really think they needed that much encouragement. Spinning on his heel, he catches Wes and Dave as well. And Lysander and Hermia, just for good measure. Darting between them, he heads across the gym and only turns around to make sure that they actually looked at each other as opposed to one of the other boys and creating some sort of mixed-up love tetrahedron.

Nope...it worked out just fine. And apparently David’s part octopus.

Blaine follows him out of the gym, where they pass Ms. Tebbit in the hallway. Kurt grins sheepishly and passes by, noting that she doesn’t look all that surprised to see him. Blaine dogs his heels as he retreats back to his room, keeping easy pace with him. Kurt almost closes the door on his face, but Blaine looks so lost—so sad—that Kurt lets him in.

“Blaine—” He holds up a finger to keep Blaine back. “I want you to think about this. You’ve never shown interest in me before.”

Riiiiight. Because if the magical flower somehow made Blaine fall in love with him, a stern talking-to will bring him out of it. Kurt glances at the clock on the wall and signs in relief. Finn will be there in a few minutes to pick him up. Hopefully a weekend apart will get Blaine back to normal.

Blaine’s close. Too close. Kurt places his hands on Blaine’s chest to keep him back, but Blaine merely grabs hold of his fingers. Leaning in, he presses his mouth against Kurt’s once more.

 _Maybe this isn’t so bad_. Kurt closes his eyes.

Blaine licks his lower lip.

 _Nope, never mind, it totally is._

*

Puck looks at the dashboard clock for the thousandth time and sighs when he realizes it’s been less than a minute since he last checked. There are a couple of guys macking in a nearby car, and Puck kind of watches for a few minutes before losing interest and looking back to the clock again. Finn’s drumming out Journey on the steering wheel, probably practicing for his upcoming solo in his head. Puck’s kind tempted to sing along, if for nothing else than to pass the time, when he finally spots Kurt making his way down the stairs.

He’s moving a bit faster than normal. Puck frowns.

A second later, another boy follows. And Puck totally knows the look on that guy’s face. It’s the same look Kurt used to give Finn. And Kurt’s not looking too happy.

Puck’s out of the car before Finn can ask. He doesn’t want to directly interfere—come on, he’s an asshole, but he’s been on the receiving end of more than a few of Kurt’s tongue lashings and thanks, but he’s not interested in being verbally eviscerated right now.

But if this guy tries to mess with their time together, they’re going to have words. Because Dalton Academy gets Kurt for three quarters of the month, and messing with Puck Time isn’t cool.

“I’ll see you Tuesday, Blaine!” Kurt practically launches himself into the backseat. He doesn’t even look interested in fighting Finn for the wheel. Puck jumps back into shotgun, but not before he catches the guy calling after them.

“O, why rebuke you him that loves you so?”

“Let’s go, Finn.”

Finn obeys. On their way home, Kurt’s mostly silent. He doesn’t even complain about the music choice, which is pretty much the first order of business when his highness gets in the car. Puck sneaks occasional glances in the rearview and takes stock of a few things.

One, Kurt’s lips are red and slightly swollen. He’s been kissed recently. Puck feels an irrational stir of anger and knows why because of the large amounts of enforced self-reflection—thanks Quinn!—he’d been forced into the past week.

Two, he’s clenching a purple flower in his hand.

Three, he looks calculating. And whenever Kurt looks calculating, things get interesting.

“Who was that?” Finn finally asks.

Kurt starts, pulled out of his thoughts. “Just a friend.”

And the funny thing about that is that Kurt’s ‘just a friend’ doesn’t actually sound a whole lot like ‘just a friend I’m secretly having an affair with and want to be the gay father of my adopted children.’ It actually sounds a little sad. Like he’s lost something. Even though the guy is obviously head over heels for him.

Huh. Trouble in gay Hogwarts. Hopefully a big snake will attack and eat them all so Kurt’ll come home.

*

The weekend passes quickly. Kurt eventually turns off his cellphone, but not before he’s spammed with a hundred texts from Blaine telling him time and time again that the course of true love never did run smooth.

He doesn’t whip out the flower again until Monday. At the prospect of actually visiting McKinley, he decides to bring it along just in case.

He drives over before the last bell. New Directions is congregating to go over this week’s ‘life lesson’—apparently, this week’s assignment was to find ways of expressing themselves through J-Pop, and he’d sooner give up his favorite scarf than miss it—and he strolls into the school like he’s done a thousand times.

“Hey.”

Puck falls into step beside him. “Come to extend an invite to the club to watch you run around stage as a fairy?”

There a gentle tease in his eyes, so Kurt opts not to be offended. “Yes.”

“Do you have my ticket?”

Kurt’s hand slips into his vest pocket, brushing the flower he’s concealed within, and grabbing one of the tickets he’d grabbed. He’s about to hand it over when the familiar sensation of a thick hand on his shoulder propels him towards the line of lockers nearby.

“So, Faggy McFag-Fag decided to come back?”

Really? _Really_? Azimio must have really missed him—he’s obviously been thinking of that gem for weeks.

It looks like Puck’s about to go Mt. Vesuvius on Azimio, and Karofsky’s standing nearby obviously just itching for the chance to jump in. Kurt grabs the flower from his pocket and darts in between them. A squeeze of the stem, a careful dodge left and a push to Azimio’s arm and BAM—instant jock true love.

Karofsky’s so distracted by Azimio’s sudden smitten gaze that he barley notices Kurt beside him until he gets love-pollened as well.

Kurt had tried feeling sorry for Karofsky for a while. Before he started being terrified by the winks, the leers, the casual intimidation and the violence brimming under the surface. And when he sees Karofsky and Azimio lunge at each other like love-smitten monsters on Power Rangers, he really starts to think that the poor guy was repressing an awful lot.

He turns to continue onward when he realizes that Puck’s still there. Puck, who’s apparently morbidly fascinated by the picture before them.

“Dude, what the—”

“Don’t call me dude. Come on.” Kurt grabs his arm and pulls him along.

“No, but seriously dude, what the—”

“Ah! No dude!”

They dart into the choir room just as Beiste arrives to break them up, shouting something about public indecency, though the horror in her voice is overriding her usual tone of authority.

Mercedes descends on him immediately, followed by the rest of the choir. Puck backs off, though he’s still staring at Kurt like he’s never seen him before.

No. Not Kurt.

The flower.

In the chaos of being greeted by the club and handing out tickets to the play, someone plucks the flower out of Kurt’s hand. Kurt looks up just in time to see Puck holding it up and smirking, an eyebrow raised speculatively as he looks it over.

“Puck—” is as far as Kurt gets before Puck turns on the nearby bundle of Gleeks and squeezes the stem.

Amidst the ensuing chaos, Kurt’s able to figure things out. Sort of. He could probably use a diagram, but from what he can tell Artie’s in love with Finn who’s in love with Brittany—and that has to be stopped before they breed and their children are born in an inescapable black hole of beautiful-but-stupid—who’s in love with Santana who’s in love with Quinn who’s in love with Rachel who’s in love with Mercedes who’s looking flattered but confused.

Well, New Directions always did have a rather pseudo-incestuous feel to it. Puck’s looking far too smug, however. Especially when Santana tries to get her hand up under Quinn’s skirt. The girl’s got impulse control issues like no one else.

And suddenly stepping into the middle of the mess is Mr. Schuester, Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell and Mr. Howell, all looking irritated at each other and overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of shuriken-like hormones flying around the room.

Kurt grabs the flower back from Puck, but will maintain until the day he dies that what he does next is the best for everyone. He’s gotta be pretty spry to make sure he hits them all at the right angle to make sure they’re all looking at each other. But he’s a pretty spry guy. The three of them can thank him later.

“Nice,” Puck whispers in his ear. He grabs for the flower again, but Kurt takes his arm and drags him out into the hallway.

“We have to stop!” Kurt states.

“Are you kidding? It’s hilarious. I wanna get the whole football team with this thing.”

Puck makes another grab for it, but Kurt turns his body to keep it away. This leaves Puck plastered up against his side. Suddenly, memories of the dream come roaring back and Kurt freezes. Sensing the change, Puck stills as well. One of his hands comes to rest against Kurt’s back, his fingers splayed so that the tips of a couple are resting against Kurt’s hip.

Shit. Not Puck, too. He didn’t even see it hitting Puck.

He turns around. “Puck—”

Puck looks down at him and licks his lips. It’s not erotic. Or, at least, it’s not intentionally erotic, but then he cranes his head and catches Kurt’s lips with his own.

This...this is nothing like kissing Blaine. There’s something musky and dangerous about Puck, the scent clinging to every inch of his skin and working its way into Kurt’s senses. His lips are slightly chapped, but the feel of them against Kurt’s is magic. Like he’s been waiting his entire life for this moment and now it’s his. Puck winds an arm around his shoulder and buries his hand in Kurt’s hair, messing it up but for the love of McQueen, Kurt just doesn’t care.

They’re interrupted when the door to the choir room slams open and a line of gleeks runs out.

“Come back!” Rachel screams after Mercedes. “Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful!”

“Rachel, you crazy!”

Kurt has to give her props, Mercedes can really motor when she wants to.

“Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?”

Rachel whizzes by a small knot of jocks, and is painted with a slushie, though only half-heartedly, as it seems they’re trying to recover from the traumatizing sight of Karofsky and Azimio trying to scratch each other’s jock itch.

It doesn’t really stop her. “The course of true love never did run smooth!”

And then Finn’s chasing Brittany who’s chasing Santana who’s chasing Quinn...

Kurt glances back in the room. Mike, Tina and Sam are all looking exceptionally confused—though that might be normal for Sam, he can never tell—Lauren Zizes is spasming in something resembling a cross between an asthma attack and an orgasm and Schuester and the Pillsbury-Howells are...

Kurt blushes and looks back at Puck. “We need to find a way to fix this.”

At Dalton, he’d done what he’d done to loosen up some of the upperclassmen. And somewhere out there, Liam and Eric, David and Wes and Pratik and Harry are probably loosening up considerably. But Blaine and the entirety of the New Directions club... it’s too much.

And Puck’s still looking like he wants to re-enact a Discovery Channel special on predators of the Savannah starring Kurt as the nimble but fabulous gazelle, and there’s no way that’s normal.

“This reminds me of a story I read a couple years back. An entire town just broke down and decided to get married. Women and women, men and men, whatever. Totally out of the blue. Maybe the same thing happened?”

Hmm. The flower must’ve done more than Kurt thought, because that makes a generous amount of sense.

They retreat to the library to look up details, and Kurt doesn’t immediately shrug off Puck’s arm as it loops around his shoulders and pulls him close.

*

They could open a detective agency or some shit, because within an hour they’ve pulled up the news reels online, found out that the local boy’s school—and how many gay Hogwart’s are there in the US, exactly?—performed the same Shakespeare play Kurt’s in—which makes him squeak—and that the kid that played Puck was named Timothy Cohen and he’s actually only about an hour’s drive from Lima.

So at about five o’clock that afternoon, they’re pulling up in front of the Cohen residence. Kurt looks nervous and excited all at once. Nervous because—let’s face it—showing up on a guy’s doorstep and asking for help curing an inaccurately-aimed love potion regardless of how fucking funny it was to see Rachel go suddenly cow-eyed over Aretha is a little nerve-wracking. Excited because he’s with Puckzilla and that’s gotta be getting the blood pumping, even if he does think that Puck got nailed with love juice and it’s the only reason he wants to have ludicrous amounts of teh-hawt-gay-sex with him.

Whatever. Puck’ll disabuse him of the notion later.

Kurt’s the one who knocks, though Puck stays close, his gaze rounding the town. It actually reminds him a lot of Lima. Except there’s a lot of people milling around holding hands and looking happy for no reason. It’s kinda weird.

The door opens a second later. “Yeah?”

“Um, hi, we’re looking for Timothy Cohen?”

The guy on the other side of the door is easy on the eyes and waves them in. “Sure thing. Hey, Tim!”

A second later, another kid—about as tall as Kurt, though broader through the shoulders—appears from the back of the house. He takes one look at them and sighs.

“Why the hell do high schools keep putting this damn play on as a musical. It’s not like Shakespeare didn’t write a few dozen others they could choose from!”

Kurt and Puck blink at each other and simultaneously realize they’re in the right place.

“Timothy, my name’s Kurt Hummel. This is my...” Awkward sidelong glance “...friend Noah Puckerman. We need your help.”

Timothy leans against the wall. The other boy steps back, kisses his cheek and whispers something about starting dinner before retreating into the back of the house.

“So, let me guess, red-headed drama teacher with a flair for the dramatic is getting you to put on _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ and weird shit has started happening.”

Kurt nods. “Essentially.”

“Have people inexplicably started breaking into random song and dance?”

Puck and Kurt exchange a slightly confused glance and they’re both obviously thinking the same thing: in what universe is randomly breaking into song and dance inexplicable?

Timothy looks Kurt over. “You’re Puck.”

“No, I’m Puck,” Puck interjects. “He’s Kurt.”

“I mean, he’s the fairy Puck.”

“Well, yeah he’s a fairy, but I’m still Puck.”

Timothy’s eye twitches.

Obviously, Kurt thinks it’s time to move on. “Anyway, because of a certain someone who shall not be named but is still in _major trouble_ , things have gotten completely out of hand and we need to reverse the flower’s effects.”

“Dungeons and Dragons much, Princess?”

“Noah, I am annoyed enough to scratch someone’s eyes out right now. Please. Try me.”

Puck’s pretty sure he’s kidding, but just in case...

“Ms. Tebbit’s got a cure. And she’ll probably spring it on you just as things are getting good.” Timothy’s eyes get a bit misty. “She’ll undo everything you’ve done. If you’re lucky—really, really lucky—then a few of the things will last. The real ones, that always should’ve been even before they got flower-powered.”

“Not a false turn’d true,” Kurt whispers. He unconsciously reaches for Puck’s hand, and Puck takes it.

“How many people did you get? I pretty much got the entire town. And now...things are different. Look outside. Everything is better. Everything.”

“All things shall be peace.” Kurt’s voice is a little choked, and more than a little sad. Puck squeezes his fingers for good measure.

Timothy’s mouth curls into a slow smile. “Exactly.” He straightens. “She’ll probably let things loose during the play. Make sure everyone’s there.” He looks at Puck. “But have fun in the meantime. If you’re anything like I was, it can make the difference after a pretty shitty life.”

And just like that, they’re done. A few minutes later they’re back on the road to Lima.

By seven, they’re pulling up in front of Kurt’s house and there’s someone waiting in the driveway. Kurt sighs a little helplessly and steps out of the car before Puck can say anything.

The other boy, who Puck recognizes from the night before, is wearing a rumpled Dalton blazer and his hair has sprung free of the confines of the half bottle of gel he must’ve used to keep the ridiculous amounts of curl in place.

Puck slips out of the car in time to hear, “Blaine, go home.”

“But—”

“Hey, he said go home,” Puck says, rounding the car. He knows dweebs like this Blaine guy well enough to know just how much threat to sneak into his voice.

“Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear.”

“One more word in iambic pentameter and I’m going to mess up your face.”

Kurt looks shocked. What? It’s not like Puck _never_ goes to class.

“I say I love thee more than he can do.”

Hey, that just stings. “You wanna take this somewhere else and try to prove it?”

“Quick, come!”

Blaine throws up his fist like he’s in a boxing match from the 1920’s and Puck’s just itching to introduce him to a dumpster. Because he will. Not because he’s a loser, or because he’s quoting Shakespeare or anything that would usually merit a short flight cushioned by a trash bag landing. But because in the past three weeks, Puck’s come to the conclusion that, based on even more long hours of forced self-reflection— _thanks, Quinn!_ —he actually kinda digs Kurt. More than digs him. And has probably dug him—digged him?—for longer than he’s really comfortable admitting. And having this curly-haired, gay Hogwarts Mufflepuff (whatever) _reject_ tell him that he can love Kurt better is Just. Not. Happening.

“Hey!” Kurt sticks himself in between them just as they’re both about to lunge. “That’s enough. No one loves me, all right?” And he sounds a bit broken when he says it, which squeezes at Puck’s heart a bit. “You’re both delusional. In your right minds, neither of you would give me the time of day. So both of you go home, sleep on it, and when we finally perform this stupid play on Wednesday we can all forget any of this ever happened.”

Puck wants to tell him that he’s digged—dug? fuck it, been in love with—Kurt since before this afternoon’s Glee club hijinks, but he’s not so sure Kurt will listen to him right now.

“O, how I love thee! how I dote on thee!”

Kurt looks shaken. He squeezes his eyes closed for a second and then moves to Blaine. He speaks softly, so that Puck can barely hear what’s being said. He picks up the tail end of it. “Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt. Be certain, nothing truer; ‘tis no jest. That I do hate thee and love Noah Puckerman.”

 _Jesus. What a way to break it to him._

And, seriously, if Kurt had just said that to him? Puck’d be off to steal another ATM. But instead of looking crippled with heartache, this Blaine dude just sort of...pouts. “But—”

“No more see my face, Blaine. Until tomorrow at school, anyway.”

And then, with a single last look over his shoulder at Puck, Kurt heads into the house.

They stand there in silence for a minute. Blaine staring after Kurt, even once the door is closed behind him, and Puck trying to figure out just what the hell happened.

Wait, did Kurt say he loved him?

“Do you wanna grab a beer?”

Blaine looks back at Puck, confused. “Yes?”

“Awesome.”

*

Dad doesn’t ask about the near-duel fought in his driveway. He does look a little perplexed—obviously the thought of two boys duking it out over Kurt hasn’t really occurred to him, and Kurt can’t really say he blames him—but accepts a quick peck to the top of his head while he splits his attention between _Deadliest Catch_ and Kurt’s entry. Finn’s nowhere to be seen, and Kurt really, _really_ hopes he not out chasing down Brittany.

He grabs a diet soda out of the fridge and heads downstairs. The wings he and Carole spent most of the weekend crafting are still hanging from the wall and Kurt admires them with a quick grin. He’s going to be the most fabulous Puck ever.

 _Second most fabulous if you count Noah threatening to beat Blaine up for you._

“Kurt?”

He gasps and almost drops his pop can. “Mercedes?”

She waves to him from the couch, where she’s watching an old, TiVo’d episode of _What Not To Wear_.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hiding from Rachel. I don’t know what happened, but I think you coming back snapped more than a few braincells.”

Kurt alights on the couch next to her and cuddles up to her side. “Blaine and Noah just had a throwdown for me outside.”

“Oh, good, I’d hate to think anyone in the club was still sane.”

They laugh and Kurt turns up the volume.

After dinner, he and Mercedes are running through reruns of Stacy and Clinton when someone knocks on his window. Hoping that it’s not Blaine and that he’s just gone home for the night, Kurt crosses the room and throws the latch. It’s not the smartest thing he’s ever done—and Mercedes jumps behind the couch in case its Rachel—but a second later Puck’s lowering himself down into the room.

“Puck?”

The other boy retrieves his guitar from outside.

“Hey. I made sure his Blaineship got back to Dalton. It really is a gay Hogwarts, isn’t it?”

“What are you…”

“I came to si—” Puck pauses when Mercedes sticks her head up from behind the couch. “Aretha, out.”

“Who do you think you are, white boy?”

“You can’t kick my friends out of my house, Noah!”

Puck winces at the dual high-pitched shouts. Grimacing, he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his cellphone. “Aretha, you got ten seconds before I call Rachel and tell her where you’re hiding.”

Mercedes’ eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”

From what Kurt can tell, Puck’s halfway finished dialing already. “Hey, Berry? What’s that sound? Police sirens? You tried to break into Aretha’s house?”

Mercedes is high-tailing it out of there before Kurt can even tell if it’s a joke.

“Now then.” Puck plucks at the strings of his guitar for a second. “ _I search your profile for a translation. I study the conversation like a map, ‘cause I know there is strength in the differences between us and I know there is comfort where we overlap_ …”

What follows is the most perfect moment in Kurt’s entire life. Puck sings, he strums the guitar and Kurt falls helplessly, deeply in love.

Puck finishes the song and puts the guitar down, resting it against one of Kurt’s bookshelves. Then, reaching out, he catches Kurt around the neck and gently tugs him into an embrace. It’s fantastic. Puck’s body is warm against his, the definition of his muscles under his loose t-shirt the most amazing thing Kurt’s ever felt in his life. And he doesn’t want it to end.

Puck tilts his chin up and then they’re kissing again. Puck’s mouth is just as warm, but more insistent. Like Puck’s pouring every ounce of need, want, love and please-be-mine into the meeting of their mouths as he possibly can. Kurt hooks his arms behind Puck’s neck and lets the other boy lift him up slightly, so they’re almost at the same height.

When they break, Kurt’s completely breathless and Puck’s not much better off. Their eyes meet and they grin at each other stupidly before Puck rests his forehead against Kurt’s. The place where their skin touches burns, like the feel of Puck against him is branding his skin.

The moment is ruined when he realizes he doesn’t get to keep this.

Kurt pulls back.

Puck frowns. “What?”

“Not like this.” They’re the hardest words Kurt has ever said in his entire life. “I don’t want you to love me just because of some stupid flower.”

Puck opens his mouth, “but—”

“I’m sorry.”

Puck’s mouth closes. And he just sort of…stares for a second. Then he nods. “Okay.”

Thank god he’s not pushing the point. Kurt doesn’t think he has it in him to refuse Puck a second time. Not when he wants what the other boy is offering so, so badly.

“But can I stay tonight? Just to hold you?”

Kurt’s lips purse, on the brink of refusal.

“Remember, Timothy said to take advantage of this while you could.”

And those weren’t exactly Timothy’s words, but Kurt decides to go with it anyway. He pops in his DVD of _Sound of Music_ and they watch right up until the Nazis show up, when Kurt decides he needs to get some sleep so he won’t end up with bags under his eyes.

They tuck into Kurt’s bed together, Puck spooned closely up behind him, an arm tight around his waist. It takes Kurt a long time to relax—keenly aware of the body behind him—but finally the gentle lapping of Puck’s breath against the back of his neck lulls him into slumber.

*

Dress rehearsal goes off without a hitch. It’s obviously difficult for Eric to pretend to love the Harry—especially when he keeps casting longing glances in Liam’s direction and Harry’s distracting them all by looking longingly at Pratik holding his guitar off-stage and occasionally strumming out a few chords of Hedley’s “Amazing”—but after a while they all really get into it.

At the end of the rehearsal, Ms. Tebbit pulls him aside. “Kurt? Have we had our fun yet?”

“Yes.”

Ms. Tebbit looks skeptical.

“Take comfort. He no more shall see my face, whom I do love and will do till my death.” It kills a small part of him, but it’s for the best. And if he keeps telling himself that, he’ll believe it.

She seems a little sad, but produces another flower from her side. It’s identical to his, but the petals are wilted. Dying. She offers it to him and he exchanges it for his own.

“Crush this herb into the lover’s eyes, whose liquor hath this virtuous property, to take from thence all error with their might and make their eyeballs roll with wonted sight.”

“When they next wake, all this derision shall seem a dream and fruitless vision,” Kurt finishes. She smiles and squeezes his arm. Then flits off to do whatever there if for female teachers to do after hours at an all boys school.

There’s a charged feeling in the air at Dalton. Over the last few days, David and Wes have apparently relaxed so much that it’s changed the school’s entire dynamic. Instead of dark glares when someone steps a toe out of line, suddenly everyone seems a lot more accepting. Maybe it’s because so many of the upperclassmen have eased off. David and Wes and Eric and Liam and Blaine—and Pratik and Harry, when they come up from their bizarre guitar-centric affair—have done something to the school. Eased it away from conformity.

That evening Eric takes it upon himself to sneak through the air ventilation system to Kurt and Liam’s room, hiss at Kurt and then cuddle up with Liam for the night.

This is what he wanted out of Dalton. Protection without conformity. If it’d been like this from the beginning, he wouldn’t be considering going back to McKinley. Because even though there’s no way Puck’s still going to love him after the play tomorrow night, Kurt wants to be near him.

The gym is packed on opening night. Kurt doesn’t get stagefright. He never has. But suddenly he’s nervous. What if the play happens and everything goes back to being the way it was? He knows from subtle texts to Mercedes that Karofsky and Azimio have been forced to the play by Mr. Schue. What if they decide to come after him for messing with them?

It doesn’t matter. Everyone out there deserves true love, and what he’s done isn’t.

“Another hero,” he whispers to himself. “Another mindless crime behind the curtain. In the pantomime.” He walks through the crowd of boys. His make up’s already been applied. Now everyone is working on each other. “ _On and on. Does anybody know what we are living for_?”

A few of the other boys chime in absently. “ _Whatever happens. We leave it all to chance. Another heartache. Another failed romance. On and on. Does anybody know what we are living for_?”

They take it from there. “ _The show must go on. The show must go on. Outside the down is breaking on the stage that holds our final destiny_.”

Kurt turns away. “Inside my heart is breaking. My make up may be flaking. But my smile…still stays on…”

The first curtain call. Kurt moves out of the way for the others as they crowd the entrance to stage right. Gripping the wilted flower tighter than he means to, he waits, comforted by the weight of the wings on his back.

 

They’re all perfect. Shakespeare would probably be horrified by the intense homosexual subtext that infuses every word since they’re all gazing adoringly at one another, but the audience digs it.

And when it comes time he steps onto the stage to deliver the denouement of this magical dream he’s gotten to live over the weekend.

Kneeling next to Blaine, he looks out into the audience. Everyone’s there. Waiting. He almost misses Puck, who’s opted to lean against one of the walls instead of taking one of the seats. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to lose him.

Behind him, he hears Ms. Tebbit whisper. “Sing.”

He knows the words he has to say, but they won’t come. He doesn’t mean them. And they’re not what escapes when he finally opens his mouth.

“ _Your fingertips across my skin. The palm trees swaying in the wind. Images_ …”

Thunder cracks outside. But it doesn’t stop him. And he looks at Puck right up until the end.

“ _…should’ve known you’d bring me heartache. Almost lovers always do_ …”

When the song ends, he holds up the flower. It isn’t violent. More like a light dusting of rain falling from the ceiling, light up by the dim lights of the stage. Slowly, people blink, as if waking from a dream. He swallows the regret and moves back off-stage to stand with Ms. Tebbit as the finale approaches.

Speaking his lines at the end is just another heartbreak. Because this was a dream. All of it. A wonderful dream. And now it’s over.

“Give me your hands, if we be friends. And Robin shall restore amends.”

The applause is thunderous, but Shakespeare’s Puck still ends up alone.

*

People crowd around him and the other cast members, raving about the production. And despite the regret, Kurt does have to admit that it was pretty much the most bad ass presentation of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ that’s ever been performed in Ohio.

He freezes when Karofsky approaches, but the other boy merely smiles. “You’re amazingly talented, Kurt.”

He offers his hand. Kurt hesitates in accepting, at first, but then decides there’s nothing the guy can do when there are so many people around him. Except, apparently, pull him into a tight hug.

“Hope I’ll see you back at McKinley someday,” Karofsky whispers into his ear. Then he disappears into the crowd with Azimio, who’s just looking a little flabbergasted.

The gleeks are all back to normal too. At least, except for Schuester and the Pillsbury-Howell’s. They’re all still holding hands. For a second, Kurt thinks there’s been a terrible mistake and they missed the part where they were supposed to get over each other. He looks around for Ms. Tebbit. She just smiles at him, however, and winks. So things must be okay.

He doesn’t see Puck. Maybe that’s for the best.

Backstage, when most of the audience has headed home, they’re all pitching in to clean up before heading back to their dorms. Wes and David are helping too. Sort of. It’s more like David’s clinging to Wes as if the prefix ‘hetero’ of ‘heterosexual life mates’ is just for show. And Wes is talking about Regionals again, but he’s soliciting feedback from the rest of the group.

“Kurt!” he shouts. “David and I were playing Team Fortress 2 last night and we’ve been thinking that we could do a pretty awesome version of ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ for our set list. What do you think?”

“I think we should do more Katy Perry,” Blaine states. He hasn’t made any advances, which is good. And he’s still smiling at Kurt like a younger brother, which also works. Because Kurt’s keenly aware that there’s just nothing there physically, though the other boy helped him figure out more about himself than every issue of Vogue tucked into the trunk at the end of his bed.

“I…” Kurt pauses. “I’m afraid you guys will have to decide without me. I’m transferring back to McKinley.”

Burt and Carole had looked proud. Finn confused but happy. All in all, a pretty good family response. And now Burt and Carole can head off on their Hawaiian getaway, though less a few months of tuition, so perhaps only at a three-star hotel instead of the five-star Kurt and Carole had picked out on Expedia before the Karofsky debacle had begun.

There’s a chorus of ‘boos’ and then immediate well-wishes.

“I knew he was spying the entire time,” Eric sniffs. He’s still draped across Liam like he owns the other boy. Liam doesn’t seem to mind.

“Spah?” David mutters from beside Wes. Wes nods solemnly, though he winks at Kurt when Eric’s not looking.

“But if you’ll accept a last vote before I go, I do have to say that you guys made me fall in love with this place when you did Katy Perry.”

Blaine grins and claps his back.

When things backstage are all ordered and neat, Kurt hangs back and watches the others leave. He’s still got the wilted flower, and he carries it out onto the stage. All the nectar has dried up, and he supposes Ms. Tebbit’s stolen off with the other one to whatever school she’s taking her Magical Roadshow Of Homosexual Tolerance next. He’s tempted to keep it. But, really, it belongs to Dalton. Let someone who’s staying get it.

He lays it down on the stage and then jumps back up when he hears clapping.

“That,” Puck—how did he manage to hide there? didn’t the teachers turf everyone?—says, still lounging against the back wall, “was amazing. Pretty gay, but I suppose you couldn’t help it since there aren’t any chicks in a hundred mile radius.”

Kurt sits down on the edge of the stage to wait for the other boy to cross the length of the gym.

“Glad you approve,” Kurt says. As Puck gets closer, Kurt realizes he’s wearing a Dalton blazer. He can’t for the life of him figure out how he got it, and so he stops trying. At least now he’s figured out how Puck managed to linger behind.

“I do,” Puck says. “Bit of a downer ending, though. Doesn’t Puck get to go home and have mad, mad sex with anyone?”

“Not so much,” Kurt says.

Puck pauses in front of him. “Are you sure?”

His chest rests against Kurt’s legs. And before he can continue, Kurt grabs the front of his jacket and pulls him in for a kiss.

Puck doesn’t push himself away. And that’s pretty much the best ending that Kurt could’ve ever hoped for.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Though I'm aware everyone can check Google for the lyrics for the songs used...
> 
> Winner Takes It All – Meryl Streep (Mama Mia OST)  
> Almost Lover – A Fine Frenzy  
> Overlap – Ani DiFranco  
> The Show Must Go On – Jim Broadbrent (Moulin Rouge OST)  
> Love The Way You Lie – Eminem feat. Rihanna  
> Can’t Make You Love Me – Bonnie Raitt


End file.
